Rise From laughingstock to wealthy

Chapter 1

"Come on, sir," Harry pleaded, barely managing to keep his voice steady. "It's only thirty minutes early. I’ll work double shifts tomorrow, swear."

"You’ll work double today, Farrow." Mr. Davis didn’t even look at him. His thick fingers kept tapping on the restaurant’s POS screen as another order popped up. "You’re lucky I didn’t fire you after last week."

Harry tried not to snap. "But sir, it wasn’t my fault," he said, forcing himself to stay calm even though it felt like his chest might crack open. "The scooter died halfway and I still delivered the order."

That caught Davis’ attention. He finally looked up, squinting with the kind of smirk Harry had learned to hate. "You kept my customers waiting. Don’t give me this rubbish. Customers couldn’t care less if your scooter fizzled out. They only care whether their food’s hot."

That got a round of snickers from the staff. One of them, some tall guy with a hairnet slipping down his brow, grumbled, "Farrow always has an excuse."

Harry clenched his fists but forced a smile. "I just need to leave early for a make-up test. If I miss it, I lose my scholarship."

Davis scoffed, glancing back at the screen. "Maybe you should just give up on dreams of being a college graduate and learn how to make burgers or deliver them on time. People like you don’t last in university anyway."

That stung, though Harry was used to it. “People like you.” He’d heard it everywhere — foster homes, social workers, teachers with false smiles. It never stopped. But he always held on, kept pushing despite everything.

He glanced at the clock. 3:42 p.m. The test was at 4:30, on the other side of campus. He could make it, if Davis would budge.

Another delivery ticket printed out. Davis grabbed it and slapped it down. "VIP Hostel. Room 209. Take it. And don’t make me say it twice. Once you’re done, you can go back to your fantasy about graduating."

Harry glanced at the slip. Marcus Winter.

Almost laughed. Of course. Marcus — son of billionaire CEO Tyrone Winter. The guy who treated Harry like dirt. Actually, Marcus had stiffed him on assignments three times already. Never paid what he promised.

Davis frowned. "Go," he growled. "And don’t come whining when you flunk your test. It’s your fault for being delusional."

Harry bit back the urge to make fun of Davis’s gut. Couldn’t afford to lose his job. Last time he missed work, he ate ramen all week.

He walked over to fetch the delivery bag. Saw his reflection in the metal warmer: bloodshot eyes, messy hair, grease stains. He looked exactly how he felt: beaten down, pretending to be fine.

His phone buzzed. Calendar notification lit up: Alicia’s Birthday Dinner — 7PM.

He took a deep breath. On the floor behind the counter sat a small gift bag he’d been lugging around. Inside was a red Givenchy purse — the one Alicia mentioned a year ago. She never asked for it, but it was five hundred bucks on sale and he jumped at it. He’d worked nonstop, skipped meals, walked everywhere instead of riding the bus, just so he could surprise her.

He pictured her reaction, that little smile and laugh she gave when truly surprised. Maybe tonight she’d finally listen — see him as something more than just some struggling delivery guy.

"Harry?"

He looked up. Brandon stood in the doorway, still in his apron. Landlord, roommate, and only real friend. Brandon was the reason Harry hadn’t ended up homeless.

Harry shoved the gift bag further behind the counter. "Hey, man."

Brandon stared. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Don’t bullshit me." Brandon leaned over, spotted the gift. "Seriously?"

Harry sighed. "It’s just a birthday present for Alicia, alright?"

Brandon’s eyes widened. "You’re still chasing her?"

"I never said I wasn’t. Why do you care?"

"You told me she stopped talking to you. Man, you owe me six months’ rent and you blow cash on some dumb gift?"

Harry scrubbed at his face. "I’ll pay rent next week. I promise. I just… Alicia's different. You wouldn’t get it."

Brandon let out a dry laugh. "Different? She barely gives you the time of day."

Harry’s voice got rough. "I love her."

Brandon looked at him a moment, shook his head. "Maybe love yourself a bit too, man. This ends in heartbreak."

He grabbed his order and left. Didn’t even glance back.

Harry stood there, heart pounding. "Close one," he muttered, watching the gift bag. If Brandon had really looked inside, there’d be hell to pay.

He wasn’t mad at Brandon — the guy was right, honestly. But love didn’t care about logic. Alicia kept him going. She was the spark, the reason he got out of bed, fought through every disappointment.

The order bell rang again. Room 209. Marcus Winter.

He cursed under his breath, pulled his helmet on, and told himself, "One last delivery. Then it’s test time."

Outside, the air felt thick enough to choke. He tied the bag onto his battered scooter and got going. The engine coughed but kept running.

By the time Harry reached the VIP dorms, the sky was turning orange. He parked, dashed up the steps, sweat plastering his shirt to his back.

Room 209.

Laughter echoed from inside. Loud, shameless. And then he heard Alicia’s laugh — that unmistakable, breathy sound he knew so well.

No. No way. What the hell’s she doing here?

He hesitated, heart hammering, and knocked.

"The door’s open!" Marcus barked.

Harry waited, then pushed inside.

The smell hit first — champagne, pricey cologne. Music thumped from a speaker. Marcus sprawled on the couch, shirtless, hair messy, wearing that annoyingly smug smile.

Alicia was straddling him, like a model on a photoshoot.

She wore a black bikini, a style Harry had never seen, not even when she asked him to take photos for her gigs.

Everything froze. Alicia kept giggling until she saw him.

Harry couldn’t move. Bag in hand, the world seemed to pause.

Marcus didn’t care at all. He picked up his drink, grinned at Harry. "Oh hey," he said. "Just leave the food there, man. I’ll need it after what I just did to my girl."

His girl? Harry felt his mouth go dry. His heartbeat slammed in his chest. He couldn’t process anything. He just stared.

"Alicia?" His voice broke.

She parted her lips, but said nothing — not even sorry.

Harry stumbled forward, barely able to whisper. "What the fuck…”